


The Mighty Oak Has Fallen

by chibi_nightowl



Category: Batman (Comics)
Genre: Gen, Grief/Mourning
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-02-08
Updated: 2017-02-08
Packaged: 2018-09-22 22:52:23
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,317
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9628769
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/chibi_nightowl/pseuds/chibi_nightowl
Summary: “Hey,” Jason says somberly to the gravestone. “Thought I’d give you hell one last time. Bruce was shit earlier; he always doesOh Captain, My Captain. I swear that’s like the only poem he knows. Supes and Diana asked Dickie a little bit ago where the good sedatives are kept because the asshole thought he was actually going out on patrol tonight. You shoulda seen the look on Bruce’s face when Diana got him with the needle while he was arguing with the big guy. He didn’t even see her coming.”





	

**Author's Note:**

> I lost someone very special the other day and wrote this for him. I think he'd appreciate it. I could not get that poem out of my head...

Jason waits until the last mourner departs. Despite what he expected, it wasn’t Bruce, but the little demon, though calling him little nowadays is a bit of a misnomer as the 16-year old is taller than Dick now (though still shorter than Jason and Bruce, which pisses Damian off immensely).

He’s been off to the side the entire day, present, but not quite part of everything. He’s always felt his place was on the periphery, even before his own death and still unexplained resurrection. A part of the family, but not.

Resurrection. He chuckles darkly to himself at the thought. That word has its own unique connotations in the circles he runs in. Death never seems to be permanent, not for those who matter ( _Why me? I’m no one. Never have been, never will be, no matter how hard I fight_ ). And yet, this particular one has a feeling of permanence to it ( _the one who matters the most_ ).

Jason watches the not-so-little demon depart and makes his way forward to the simple memorial stone. It’s not ostentatious; it’s tasteful, if these things could ever be considered so. Memorials and markers are for the living. The dead don’t care, though it still pisses him off something fierce on the rare occasions he’s in the Cave and sees his own memorial case that Bruce still refuses to take down ( _I’m alive dammit, I’m not dead. I’m not dead, you obstinate piece of shit_ ).

The sun is starting to set on what had been a beautiful day. He’d heard more than once that the weather seemed so contradictory to the mood around Wayne Manor, but Jason thought it was perfect. The weather was suited to the demeanor of the deceased rather than the dark master of the house.

_He was our sunshine, the one person who knew how to make it all better with even the most simple of gestures._

He shoves his hands in the pockets of his suit jacket and stares at the fresh grave. For once in his life, Jason didn’t rail against putting on formalwear this morning when he got up, though the stiff collar of his white dress shirt is undone and his dark red tie is at half-mast already. He’d kept it in place throughout the funeral, that’s all that mattered.

The man in the ground knew Jason never stood much for formality but would have appreciated the effort, nonetheless.

Jason shuffles his feet a bit awkwardly and runs a hand through his messy hair. He’s dying for a cigarette but can wait a little longer. When he leaves, he’ll let himself have just one, though he was definitely going to get smashed later in the privacy of his apartment.

“Hey,” he says somberly to the gravestone. “Thought I’d give you hell one last time. Bruce was shit earlier; he always does _Oh Captain, My Captain_. I swear that’s like the only poem he knows. I promise I’ll keep an eye on him, and the other little shits, but you know what they’re all like. Supes and Diana asked Dickie a little bit ago where the good sedatives are kept because the asshole thought he was actually going out on patrol tonight. You shoulda seen the look on Bruce’s face when Diana got him with the needle while he was arguing with the big guy. He didn’t even see her coming.”

He reaches into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a crumbled piece of paper. “Anyways, I know you have better taste than that drivel Bruce read earlier. You fought hard,” Jason’s voice chokes a bit here and he starts blinking away tears that suddenly spring into his eyes. “I wish you would have said something sooner. We all do. I think I know who we really got our stubborn and obstinate streaks from and it’s not the big bad bat passed out in his bedroom with his two best friends watching him drool into his pillows.”

He takes a moment to collect himself before continuing. “So, some Dylan Thomas, here we come.” Opening the piece of paper, because today Jason does not trust his memory and refuses to fuck this up, he starts to read, clear and strong.

_Do not go gentle into that good night_  
 _Old age should burn and rave at close of day;_  
 _Rage, rage against the dying of the light._  
  
_Though wise men at their end know dark is right,_  
 _Because their words had forked no lightning they_  
 _Do not go gentle into that good night._  
  
_Good men, the last wave by, crying how bright_  
 _Their frail deeds might have danced in a green bay,_  
 _Rage, rage against the dying of the light._  
  
_Wild men who caught and sang the sun in flight,_  
 _And learn, too late, they grieved it on its way,_  
 _Do not go gentle into that good night._  
  
_Grave men, near death, who see with blinding sight_  
 _Blind eyes could blaze like meteors and be gay,_  
 _Rage, rage against the dying of the light._  
  
_And you, my father, there on the sad height,_  
 _Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears, I pray._  
 _Do not go gentle into that good night._  
 _Rage, rage against the dying of the light._

Jason’s voice fades as the last rays of sunshine disappear over the treetops. He carefully folds the piece of paper back up and slips it into his pocket. Squaring his shoulders, he realizes there are tears streaming down his face. He rubs at his face with the back of his hand and chuckles. “And here I am without a handkerchief. What a day to forget one, huh, Alfie? Go figure that it’s me. Forever screwing up.”

Rubbing at his eyes once more, Jason says thickly, “You didn’t go gentle, Alfie. You raged until the very end. I’m going to miss you and I don’t think I ever said this to you even once, but…I love you. Always have and always will.” He pauses and sniffs, trying hard to keep his usually volatile emotions under control. “Good-bye, Alfie.”

He turns and walks away, through the wrought iron gates of the private graveyard at the back of Wayne Manor, and across the broad lawn that still looks so perfect and green in the fading light.

As Jason approaches the back terrace, he spots Tim sitting on the steps, suit jacket laying beside him, collar open, and not even wearing the dark blue tie Jason remembers from earlier. “Hey,” he says quietly as he stands up. “Dick’s busy with the demon and Babs is running herd on everyone else.”

“Yeah?” Jason asks disinterestedly, wondering what his replacement is getting at.

“Was wondering if you wanted to go out and get smashed somewhere,” Tim offers carefully. “Not here.”

For a moment, Jason is tempted to say no fucking way, that getting drunk with his replacement is the last thing he wants to do. His relationship may be better with his family now than it had been in the couple years after his return to Gotham, but he still didn’t go out of his way to socialize with them. Even Tim and he’s the one Jason gets along most with out of the group, which shocked the hell out of him when he finally realized it.

But Jason remembers his promise to Alfred. “Yeah, let’s do it. Get your shit and let’s get outta here.”

Tim gives him a small, grateful smile and stoops down to pick up his suit jacket. “Your place or mine?” he asks.

Jason gives it a thought for a moment. “Yours. You at least buy all the good shit. And you have every game system known to man.”

“One tequila shot for every zombie horde we destroy?”

“You’re speaking my language, Replacement. We’ll be shit-faced in no time.”

“That’s the plan,” Tim replies as they walk into the Manor together. “That’s the plan.”


End file.
